


strawberry swing

by glitterforplaster (ineffableangel)



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bakery, Asexual Character, Bakery, Canon Gay Character, First Dates, First Kiss, M/M, Meet-Cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-12
Updated: 2015-03-12
Packaged: 2018-03-17 12:36:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3529688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineffableangel/pseuds/glitterforplaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ronan Lynch ran a small but successful local bakery by the name of Pájaro Pastries. Richard Campbell Gansey was a budding medievalist with a sweet tooth. It was love at first bite.</p><p>(bakery au)</p>
            </blockquote>





	strawberry swing

**Author's Note:**

> it is my ultimate headcanon that ronan is black and latino; niall lynch was latino, aurora lynch is black. blue is korean-american. gansey is white, at least this time. all of this is explained within the fic, but that’s what you should go into it expecting. also, for kicks, my ronan fancast is model and former boxer of irish descent, [dudley o’shaughnessy](https://www.google.com/search?q=dudley+O%27shaughnessy&es_sm=91&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ei=DQSsVN3uNYKxggTAi4SIAQ&ved=0CAgQ_AUoAQ&biw=1366&bih=601) and my blue is kiko mizuhara. language key in end notes, but most of it should be intuitive. _pájaro _means bird in spanish. ronan is sans chainsaw for this, because he isn't a dream thief and thus is left without his dream theft, and also, for health code purposes, birds and baking probably shouldn't mix. sorry.__
> 
> warning for the frequent creation and consumption of confections, specifically sugary ones.
> 
> title from strawberry swing by frank ocean; “when we were kids, we handpainted strawberries on a swing / every moment was so precious then / i'm still kicking it / i'm daydreaming.” i thought it was appropriately sweet, although i wrote this while listening to cellist dom la nena’s debut album, _ela_ , which you can and should seek out on spotify. her voice is like hot chocolate.

The first time Richard Campbell Gansey stepped foot in Pájaro Pastries, it was to seek refuge from the downpour of a lifetime. He’d passed by the place before, on his bus to the university, but he’d never had a chance to go in. He was a struggling second-year college student, a budding medievalist, and, through the hand of fate, circumstance, and his mother’s lucrative political career, weighed down with a lot of cash he didn’t particularly want, and didn’t particularly know how to spend; he also had a sweet tooth bigger than Texas, and a tendency to fall in love with nearly every pretty boy he came across, so walking into Pájaro Pastries now, though he didn’t know it at the time, was a recipe for delicious but decided disaster. Because there, among the buttercream frosting birds and blow-away light lemon pound cake, was Ronan Lynch.

Gansey, drenched from blond head to expensive, leather-clad toe, and looking generally like a wet cat, felt his heart stop. He would experience this again, a few minutes later, when, in a moment of uncharacteristic boldness, he would order an espresso, and the baker boy would smile.

Gansey approached the counter tentatively, pretending to peruse the menu but actually perusing the handsome stranger. His head was shaved, and an edge of ink peeked out from his collar, hooking around the back of his bared neck. He was wearing a tight black t-shirt under his apron, which Gansey privately wished said _Kiss the Cook_ or something equally cliché and suggestive, but which in fact only boasted the name of the bakery in gold letters. The stranger had very nice arms, and very white teeth, and very big, brown hands. He was altogether _very_ , and Gansey was devastatingly interested in him.

“Hey,” said the stranger pleasantly, leaning his elbows on the counter. “Welcome to Pájaro Pastries. I’m Ronan, I run the place. How can I help you?”

Gansey thought of saying, _You could let me take you to dinner,_ but that was far too forward, and he, far too shy. “I’ve never been here before,” he said, instead, and then felt silly, because Ronan knew that. “To tell the truth, I just came in to get out of the rain. What would you recommend?”

Ronan rubbed a hand across his chin. After a while, he said, “The tres leches is popular. Unless you’re lactose intolerant? Can’t have you keeling over in the middle of my bakery. Bad for business.”

Gansey smiled nervously. “No, I’m good. I’ll take that, then.” Spying the espresso machine sitting on the back counter, he added, “And an espresso, please.”

Ronan flashed him a somewhat sly smile. Gansey’s steady heartbeat abruptly declared a holiday. “Oh, no, you don’t want an espresso from _that_ machine.” He stepped back and patted the thing on its silver top, as though it were a faithful dog. “Marietta over here is tough. She doesn’t grind good beans for just anyone. You have to earn her trust.”

Gansey raised his eyebrows, unsure how to respond. Ronan smiled again.

“She’s temperamental,” he explained. “Keeps breaking on me. I can’t figure out how to make her work, I’m embarrassed to admit. Sorry. You want regular coffee instead?”

The tips of Gansey’s ears flushed pink. “I don’t even like espresso, honestly. I just wanted to seem sophisticated. I’d love a regular coffee.”

Ronan laughed. “Milk and sugar?”

“Please.”

“Coming right up.” Ronan tapped the countertop with two fingers, and walked into the back room for Gansey’s order.

Gansey took this moment of alone time to look around. The place was set up a bit like a retro diner, tables and booths and a counter with swiveling stools at the end. Everything smelled like baked bread and cocoa. The walls were painted a shocking metallic gold that caught the light beautifully, and, except for the carpet in front of the display case, the floors were a polished wood. The little plaque by the door proudly announced that Pájaro Pastries had stood here since 1983, though it had been called Angie’s Pie and Pastries until a few years ago. Gansey wondered why the change of name— perhaps a change of hands? At any rate, he was the only customer, and no surprise, considering the weather, although it seemed to be letting up now. The barest hint of sunlight bled through the curtains and fell in patterns on the floor. Gansey glanced despairingly at his messenger bag. He hoped his books and papers were alright. He could only be grateful he’d left his laptop at his apartment.

“One tres leches,” Ronan said, emerging from the back and setting a dainty, mouth-watering cake on the counter in front of Gansey. Half a strawberry sat primly on top. “Coffee’s brewing. Sorry for the wait. I had to make fresh. It’s been a slow day.”

"That's alright," Gansey said, choosing a seat at the counter. He picked up his fork and took a bite of cake. His stomach somersaulted with unearthly delighted. It tasted like all of the things he'd loved about his childhood and all of the things he'd been told good old American comfort food should be even though it was a Spanish dish and also quite a lot like sugar and condensed milk and criminally fresh strawberries. He said, "Holy _shit_ ," and then clapped a hand over his mouth. Ronan watched him with amusement.

"I am so sorry," Gansey said, laughing at himself. He couldn't help but be happy, even as ashamed of his outburst as he was; dessert tended to do that to him. "I usually don't curse in front of people I've just met. This is just..." He waved the fork. " _Really_ good."

"I'm glad." Ronan puffed up a little at the praise. “Gloomy day like this, dessert’s just the thing. You enjoy. I’ll get your coffee.” With that, he disappeared again, door swinging behind him.

Gansey took another few bites, savoring each layer of sweetness, eyes closed. The cake was small, but immensely satisfying, and he finished it quickly. After another moment, Ronan reappeared for a second time, carrying a steaming coffee in a paper to-go cup.

"How much do I owe you?" Gansey asked, fishing into his pocket for his wallet, which was unfortunately still a bit damp, despite the pleasant warmth of the café. But Ronan only waved a hand, dismissive.

"First timers don't owe me a penny," Ronan said, taking Gansey's plate away. "Company policy. You can come back, pay me next time. I'll make you another tres leches, you tell me your life story, we'll call it even."

Gansey put his wallet away, took a sip of his coffee, groaned — it was also delicious — and nodded. “Deal. Thank you so much.”

Ronan flashed him another ruinous smile. It was the kind of smile with experience tucked into one corner, like he’d had to learn it the hard way, and now he lent it out three times a day, to anyone who needed it, as he once had. Gansey liked that a lot. “Don’t mention it. Good luck out there. It’s a rough world.”

Gansey smiled back. “But I have your magic cake as protection.” He thanked Ronan once last time, swung his bag carefully over his shoulder, and took his leave.

Just as he made to walk out the front door, bell jangling faintly with the movement, Ronan called after him, “Hey! What’s your name?”

Gansey turned, pushed the door open with his foot, called back, “Gansey!” and left Pájaro Pastries and its charming baker to bask in the shy sunshine of a formerly rainy day.

 

*

 

Gansey returned to Pájaro Pastries several more times after that. He popped by every second he had free from the frantic hustle of college life and his part-time job stacking CDs and records at the Vinyl Palace downtown. His inheritance could have covered him just fine, but he liked knowing he’d earned at least a fraction of the cash in his pocket, and the job was enjoyable, if a bit too repetitive for his ever-spinning mind.

By his third week, Gansey had already come to know several of the other regulars at Pájaro by name. There was Noah, who kept mostly to himself, but always offered a shy smile and a bite of his pecan pie. There was Matthew, who was young and excitable, and often brought his homework; Gansey suspected he belonged to the owner, considering the ease with which he moved about the place — though he never strayed behind the counter — and the fond looks Ronan the baker threw him whenever they crossed paths. There was Adam, who always took the table by the window and liked the rich, spiced coffee cakes that crumbled when you bit into them; he was a teaching assistant at the local junior high school, just down the street, Science or possibly History, or at least he knew quite a bit about both. He liked to come up for his lunch break, and proved to be a good companion for Gansey’s occasional day off. They got to talking about the Middle Ages, and of Glendower, as everyone who struck up a conversation with Gansey eventually did; Gansey loved his work almost as much as he loved Pájaro Pastries’ endless displays of sugary confections, and almost as much as he was coming to love the effortless grin of the person who made them.

“Gansey man!” Ronan said one sunny Tuesday, when Gansey didn’t have class, and had been craving lemon meringue the entire bus ride here. “Back again. What can I get for you?”

“Lemon meringue,” Gansey said. “Please, I’m desperate, bless you.”

Ronan tapped the counter with two fingers, like he always did, and Gansey hunkered down in one of the booths while Ronan cut him a slice of pie, dragging out his laptop and his mountain of books for his various classes.

“That’s a collection,” Ronan observed when he came by, setting Gansey’s pie on the table and standing back to survey the chaos, hands on his hips.

“Yes,” Gansey sighed. “My hoard of Anglo-Saxon poetry and Latin homework. I fear I’m turning into a dragon as we speak.” He paused, and then, leaning forward on his elbows, said, “You know, J.R.R. Tolkien had this theory, though of course it wasn’t his originally, that if you wanted something enough, treasure or power or anything equally corrupting, gold especially, you started to become less than human. Or more, I suppose. You started to become a dragon yourself. He called it dragon sickness. He used it in his books. In The Hobbit, what the dwarf king wants most is the Arkenstone, the royal jewel, and his rightful place on the throne, and over the course of the book the desire begins to change him, to consume him. I was just thinking... Oh, I’m sorry. You don’t care. I talk too much, I’m dreadful, it’s the curse of a dedicated student. Makes me a little unpopular at parties.” Gansey smiled.

Ronan raised his eyebrows in return. “No, go on. What were you going to say?”

“I was just thinking,” Gansey said, loading up his fork with a big bite of lemon meringue. “Maybe if I eat enough of your food, I’ll really turn into a dragon. It’s almost like treasure, at any rate.”

To Gansey’s shock and pleasure, Ronan became a bit flustered at this, fiddling with the ties of his apron and giving a hasty, “Well, good, thanks,” before he went back to the counter, trying not to let Gansey catch his blush, which Gansey definitely did. Gansey sat back in his booth, beaming. Maybe next week he’d get up the courage to ask Ronan on a date. For now, he was content with their short exchanges. He took another bite of his pie, and set himself to work.

 

*

 

Gansey would not, after all, get up the courage to ask Ronan on a date the following week, because the following week proved to be the worst week of Gansey’s mortal existence since he’d been stung by hornets, legally died, and discovered his life’s purpose all in one day.

On Monday, it rained again, keeping Gansey stuck in class, watching storm clouds roll across the sky from behind a thick sheet of lecture hall Plexiglass, unable to visit Pájaro Pastries. His horrific sweet tooth had only been enabled by Ronan’s baking, and now he craved cakes he could not reach. It made him uncharacteristically self-pitying, gloomy and grey like the weather outside. On Tuesday, streets still slick from the day before, Gansey dropped a favorite book in a puddle, damaging it beyond repair. The ink ran, the pages dried out curled and stained, and the cover was so hopelessly damp it seemed it would never dry. On Wednesday, late at night, a mouse chewed through a piece of electrical wiring in Gansey’s apartment complex, knocking out the power for half his floor and killing it instantly. This made it impossible for Gansey to do any schoolwork on his already-depleted computer battery, despite the fact that he had an important paper due Friday and needed to check his sources before he could finish it. To make matters worse, he was the one who found the poor creature, furry and lifeless, lying in the fuse box at the end of the hall; he wept all the way downstairs to the apartment grounds, where he dug a tiny grave in the wet soil with the heel of his shoe and buried it, head to the west, like a proper hero.

By the time Thursday reared its ugly head, Gansey was more than ready for the week to be over. He fully intended to spend the next one stubbornly nested in blankets, sleeping like the dead, waking only for food and coffee and reruns of _Xena: Warrior Princess_ , trying to forget that this week had ever happened to him. But Thursday was blessedly sunny, and after all that rain the flowers preened and presented their spring buds for the city and its inhabitants. Gansey decided to forgo class entirely that morning. He didn’t feel like stepping off a crowded bus full of strangers only to step into a crowded lecture hall full of half-familiar faces, no matter how much he loved Medieval literature, and, anyhow, he was going through withdrawal. As silly as it made him feel, he missed Ronan’s smile. He was completely gone for it.

Gansey took his time getting to Pájaro, admiring the greenery and watching all sorts of interesting people pass him by, but eventually he came to the bakery. He hadn’t brought any schoolwork with him this time, but he did have a good book — though not as good as the one he'd destroyed, may it rest in pieces — and a hankering for tres leches. The bell on the door jingled and jangled as he closed it behind him, a now familiar sound, and comforting after a difficult week. Ronan greeted him immediately, with his usual behind-the-counter wave and gesture toward the menu.

Seeing Ronan for the first time in a week, Gansey was struck by how often he’d been coming here; almost once a day, since he’d discovered it. It seemed excessive, now that he considered it, and in that moment he had to admit to himself it was more for the pastry-maker than for the pastries. He stepped up to the counter. “I’m sorry if this seems forward,” he said impulsively, “but will you have dinner with me tonight?”

Ronan grinned like a solar flare. It was difficult for Gansey to look directly at him, and even more difficult for him to look away. “Sure,” he said, easy as you please.

"What, really?"

"Yes. You're cute. Where did you have in mind?”

Gansey opened his mouth, and then shut it again, embarrassed. He hadn’t gotten that far. “I hadn’t gotten that far,” he admitted. “I was mostly focused on the... you... part.”

“Come to my place,” Ronan offered, shrugging. Gansey couldn’t help but appreciate how good his arms looked in his tight work shirt. “It’s right upstairs, no fuss. I’ll cook for you. I make a mean pasta sauce.”

“You can cook, too?” Gansey asked despairingly. “Christ.”

“I’m a man of many talents,” Ronan said, mouth curving, and, oh, shit, was that a line? That was most definitely a line. “So, my place, six o’clock?”

So. Ronan’s place. Six o’clock.

The apartment above the bakery was guarded by a tiny ceramic frog, out of the top of which grew some kind of wilting plant of a generic and unidentifiable household nature. The frog did not look especially pleased to have glorified grass sprouting from it. The glorified grass did not look especially pleased to have been neglected.

Gansey knocked on the door, stuffed his hands in his pockets, allowed himself several moments of well-deserved first date-induced panic, and then took his hands out of his pockets. He ran his fingers through his hair, worried about his appearance, knocked again, worried Ronan wasn’t home, regarded the frog, worried about his appearance a sixth or seventh time — he’d lost track before he’d even left his bedroom — and stood there a while longer before the door finally swung open, revealing Ronan in gloriously tight jeans and a red t-shirt. The edge of his tattoo hooked over his neck. Gansey wondered what it was; a wing, a beak, a thorn, a sword?

“Hello,” Gansey said. “You look great. I think your frog plant is dying.”

Ronan glanced down at the ceramic frog at the foot of his front door. “It is,” he said. “Come in.”

Gansey did. The inside of Ronan’s apartment was clearly lived in, much like Gansey’s own apartment, but clean in a way Gansey could never be bothered to maintain. Shoes were lined up by the door, books and magazines were stacked in haphazard piles on the coffee table, and one corner of the couch was loaded with pillows and blankets, clearly marking out which side Ronan favored; but the kitchen, Ronan’s workspace even away from work, was absolutely spotless.

“You can sit there while I cook,” Ronan offered, gesturing to the chair pulled up to one of the marble counters in the kitchen. “Shouldn’t take too long. I just have to do the sauce, then we’re set. ”

Gansey lingered by the couch. “Do you mind if I look at your DVD collection first? Very important first date recon.”

Ronan, distracted by the dials on the stove, nodded. “Go ahead.”

Gansey made a beeline for the bookshelf in the corner of the living room. He didn’t date often — he’d only had one serious boyfriend before this, and a girlfriend in high school — but his number one rule was books and movies. To Gansey, as a professional lit scholar and amateur film buff, good taste, or at least terrible taste that acknowledged it was terrible and went on loving anyway, was imperative in a potential significant other. Ronan’s, it seemed, was a mixture of the two, which happened to be Gansey’s favorite option. His collection ranged from classics like the original Star Wars trilogy to cult obscurities like _An American Werewolf in London_. Gansey’s hand hovered over a particularly beat-up DVD case.

“ _The Lion King_?” he asked, holding it up.

“Hm?” Ronan turned from the pot on the stovetop. Something changed in his face when he caught sight of the DVD in Gansey’s hand. He seemed suddenly— younger. “Oh,” he said, halting. “Yeah. It’s, uh, my favorite Disney movie. Used to watch it with my dad. Embarrassing, I know.”

“Are you kidding?” Gansey said, putting it back on the shelf. “My favorite Disney is _The Black Cauldron_. Far more embarrassing.”

Ronan smiled, and went back to his sauce. Gansey loved his smile. He took the seat Ronan had offered him earlier, rolling up his sleeves and leaning on his elbows on the counter to watch Ronan chop tomatoes and garlic and add them to the pot.

“You’re Puerto Rican, right?” he asked after a moment, hoping he’d guessed correctly from some of the items on the menu, and wasn’t making a fool of himself.

Ronan made a face. His nose wrinkled adorably. “Yes and no. Mostly the yes. Mom’s black, but adopted. Dad was born in Ireland to Puerto Rican parents, God knows why they were living there at the time. Maybe they got tired of the summers. If you can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen, and all. Here, taste this.”

Gansey opened his mouth to reply, and Ronan pushed a spoon into it, full of the spiciest, most incredible pasta sauce Gansey had ever tasted on this earthly plane. He closed his eyes and groaned. “That is _fantastic,_  I _hate_ you. Why are you good at _everything_? I feel inferior.”

“I’m sure we can find something you’re good at,” Ronan said, and Gansey flushed.

“Was that flirting?” Gansey asked as Ronan turned back to the stove. He just wanted to be sure. It was difficult for him to tell, sometimes, and he’d made the wrong assumption before.

“Do you want it to be?” Ronan asked back, noncommittal.

“Yes.”

“Then yes.”

“I should tell you, um, I don’t really— do sex. You’re gorgeous, and I’d love to date you some more after tonight, but I’m just not... into that. I’m ace,” Gansey explained, shifting uncomfortably. He preferred to be upfront; some people, as he’d learned the hard way, were assholes. “You can make a poker joke if you want.”

Ronan peered around his spoon at Gansey in a way Gansey could only describe as hopeful. He had a red smudge on his nose from when he’d rubbed it whilst cooking, some kind of spice, maybe paprika. It was awfully endearing. “But you like kissing, right? I can kiss you?”

“Yes,” Gansey said. “I would very much like you to kiss me.”

“That’s all fine, then,” Ronan said, stirring the sauce. “This is done,. Do you want dinner first, or should we commence with the kissing as soon as possible?”

Gansey laughed, relieved and delighted. “I have to say, while that sounds tempting, I’m starved. I think I love your food more than you.”

Ronan sighed. “Everyone does.”

 

*

 

To Gansey, Ronan seemed to be made entirely of spun sugar and shocking jokes. To Ronan, Gansey seemed to be made entirely of fairy tales and legends, the fierce desire to make every person whose life he touched endlessly happy, and no idea how to properly go about this. They got on like a house fire: fast, warm, likely to singe anyone who stepped close enough. When the evening of chatter and good food had ended, Ronan saw Gansey to the doorstep like a gentleman, where they lingered uncertainly until Ronan’s neighbor down the hall — a great gossip who, in the coming months, Gansey would take to calling ‘Mrs Robinson’ in a sort of half-horrified, half-reverent haze — leant out of her apartment and called, “Are you going to stand there all night or are you going to kiss him?”

From a young age Gansey had had instilled in him the love of a challenge, especially when it came to climbing trees that towered over him, and now, presented with a very tall baker and what was practically a declaration of war, _you just see if I don’t_ , Gansey took a fistful of Ronan’s shirt, hauled him down, and kissed him. They melted together. Ronan immediately and instinctively put his hand on Gansey’s cheek, and after a moment, when they parted, grinned and dipped him low right there in the hall and kissed him again, entirely for Mrs Robinson’s benefit. After some inappropriate lurking, she went away satisfied. Ronan and Gansey snickered to themselves and swore up and down that as long as they lived they would never tell her they’d already had their first kiss, inside Ronan’s apartment, after dinner, and their second and third too. It would break her heart.

Thus their first date came and went.

They met for another, and another, and Gansey visited Pájaro as often as he could just to see Ronan, and then, with little fanfare, falling into each other the way you might fall into love, or into a swimming pool you hadn’t noticed, they were a couple.

 

 

*

 

“Who’s the dame,” Gansey asked one afternoon, after they had been dating for a few months, setting his messenger bag down and pulling up his usual stool at the counter. Ronan was stocking the display case with delicate little cakes, breath ghosting from the sealed-in chill, and when he saw Gansey, he set the last one in his place, closed the case, and wiped his hands on his apron. His fingers left faint streaks of flour on the cloth. Gansey loved Ronan’s hands; they were big and broad, but they always handled everything with care, including Gansey.

“What?” Ronan said, leaning over the counter for a hello kiss, which Gansey gave him gladly.

“The girl,” Gansey said again, when they’d parted. “In the corner. With the pink fishnets. I haven’t seen her in here before. New customer? She hasn’t ordered anything.”

Ronan frowned, his eyebrows doing that adorable furrowing thing, and leaned further over the counter to see the coveted corner table of the bakery, with the outlet, where the more reclusive regulars often liked to sit and work on their laptops for hours on end, leeching the wifi until Ronan made them buy something, which they would instantly adore, so of course they’d come back the next day, and the next, to do it all over again. Just as Gansey had said, there was a girl sitting there, wearing pink fishnets, and an over-large yellow raincoat with a cartoon bee on the pocket. She had a menu propped open in front of her, but her face was visible from the side; she was Korean, and pretty in a home-brewed way, like she'd cut her own hair in her bathroom mirror and pierced her ears at summer camp. Ronan’s eyes lit up at the sight of her, and, to Gansey’s shock and bafflement, he leapt boots-first over the counter and shouted, “Blue Sargent!”

The girl — Blue — looked up, cocked an eyebrow, and returned to her menu. “I was wondering when you’d notice me. Too busy communing with your cakes, I expect. You haven’t changed a bit.”

“Get the fuck up out of my chair and hug your brother, you ridiculous witch,” Ronan said, beaming, arms flung out on either side, and Blue rolled her eyes and got up and hugged him tightly around the waist. Standing, she was even smaller than Gansey had originally thought; about five feet tall, and completely vanished by Ronan’s embrace.

Gansey was still reeling from _brother_ when the pair of them, still half-hugging, shuffled over to him.

“Gansey,” Ronan said, “this is Blue, my sister. Sort of. Our parents were never properly married, my mom’s straight as an arrow and Blue’s is still hung up on her drifter dad, but they got to be fast friends, so Blue and I pretty much grew up together. Honorary blood relation, I suppose. Blue,” Ronan said, nudging her. “This is Gansey. I’ve told you about him.”

“Boy toy.” Blue smiled, and held out a hand. “ _Enchanté_. Ronan’s been emailing me about you. Won’t stop going on about your three names and your eyes, _like an autumn’s day_ , he’s probably written sonnets. We should loot his apartment together, see if we can find them. I’ll pick the lock, you can stand there and look pretty. Oh, look, I’m embarrassing him. Don’t look at me like that, Ronan, it’s my sworn duty as your sister, I took an oath. You wouldn’t want me to break oath, would you? It’s an _oath_. Think of my honor.” Turning to Gansey, again, she said, “You’d know a bit about honor, wouldn’t you? You’re studying the Middle Ages, right?”

“Much to the disappointment of my parents,” Gansey said, returning her smile somewhat ruefully. “Give or take two more years of playing with my Welsh kings and maybe I’ll have a real job.”

“Well, what do they do?”

“They’re in politics.”

Blue made a noise of disgust. “ _Politics_.”

“Yes,” Gansey agreed. “Quite.”

“Blue makes her own clothing,” Ronan put in, clapping a hand on Gansey’s shoulder. His hand felt warm through Gansey’s shirt. “Very alternative. Very new wave. Very _niche_.” He said this teasingly, and it sounded to Gansey as though he were repeating words Blue herself had used to describe her business to him, perhaps in a previous conversation. Blue stuck her tongue out at him.

“Sure, sure, make fun of me,” she said, tugging on the collar of her garish yellow raincoat the way a greaser might tug on his leather jacket. “You’ll all be sorry when I’m accepting the award for Womenswear Designer of the Year. I won’t even mention you in my speech, that’s how much of a mistake you’re making right now.”

“Sorry, O Wise and Powerful Seamstress,” Ronan said. “Would Her Majesty care for anything to eat while she graces us with her presence? This is a bakery, I don’t know if you’ve noticed.”

Blue stuffed her hands into her pockets. “Nah, I’ve gotta jet, unfortunately. Only dropped by for a quick hello. I’m a popular woman, you know, people to see, places to go. I have a thing.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Ronan said, nodding sagely, “you have a _thing_. A thing more important than visiting your big brother.”

Blue scowled. “You’re not any older than me! Only taller. And you’re not allowed to comment on my height unless you want another swift kick in the ass, _hermano_. You remember what happened last time.”

Ronan only grinned back at her, slinging his arm around Gansey’s waist and leaning into him, so casually affectionate it made Gansey’s stomach flutter. “Ah, yes, of course, I repent, I take it all back. You are _muy alto_ , _princesa_. You’re the boss.”

“Damn right,” Blue muttered, and left them for a moment to grab her belongings from her table, hiking her bag up onto her shoulder and tucking her newspaper under her arm. When she returned, she stood on the tips of her toes to kiss Ronan’s cheek. Next to his six feet of solid baker, she seemed breakable, and tiny. Gansey, though he was barely any larger, wondered if she’d eaten her greens as a child. He highly doubted it.

“We’re having dinner, six on the dot, don’t be late, no arguments,” Blue said, tapping a finger against Ronan’s chest. “You can bring King Arthur,” she added, and left in a flash of pink and yellow before either Ronan or Gansey could protest.

They watched the door swing shut in silence.

“I feel like a forest fire just blew through town and destroyed all my crops, but I kind of enjoyed it,” Gansey said thoughtfully.

“She has that effect,” Ronan agreed.

“Am I King Arthur?”

“I think it’s safe to say you are.”

Gansey glanced at him sidelong. “Did you really say that about my eyes?”

“Okay, goodbye forever,” Ronan said, and fled to the back room. Gansey laughed with delight all the way back to his booth.

At six on the dot, just as she promised, Blue returned. Gansey had stayed behind after closing, which was early on Mondays, figuring it was easier just to stick around and do his work in his booth like always rather than go home and come back. Ronan was just wiping down the counter when the bakery’s bell jangled violently. Blue was pounding cheerfully and relentlessly on the door, pressing her face up against the glass to see inside.

“Hello! Hello! Time to go!” she called. “You boys unlock this door and get your butts out here! We have a date! Hello!”

Gansey and Ronan watched her in silence.

After a long moment of pounding, Gansey said, conversationally, “We’d better let her in. I don’t think your door can take much more of a beating from her tiny yet powerful fists.”

Ronan unlocked the door. Blue whirled in. She was still wearing her fishnets, but her ripped-up band tee and unforgettable raincoat had been replaced by a nicer dress shirt and jacket combo. She moved like a small and opinionated thunderstorm.

“Take off that apron, Ronan,” she commanded. “We’re going somewhere fancy.”

“You know I could just cook for you here,” Ronan said, but Blue only threw up her arms, and Ronan rolled his eyes and dropped the subject.

Dining with Blue was… an experience. Over the course of the night Gansey came to like her very much and respect her even more, and by the time he and Ronan stumbled back to Ronan’s apartment he felt he’d learned a great deal more about the world than he’d ever had a chance of learning in his lecture hall. But still he was curious.

“You and Blue knew each other as kids, right?” he asked the next morning, helping Ronan set up the bakery for the day. “I’m sure she could tell me some stories. Come to think of it, I’m sure _you_ could tell me some stories. What was she like in high school?”

Ronan snorted. “Absolutely, exactly the same.”

“Somehow that doesn’t surprise me. What were you like in high school?”

“Sad,” Ronan said honestly, leaning his elbows on the counter. “Angry. I got into fights. And illegal street racing. I was a completely different person. What were you like?”

Gansey raised his eyebrows. “I’m sorry to say I never did anything as exciting as illegal street racing. I was pretty much the same, although I had a lot more connections. The whole student body knew me by name, although no one knew me by heart. I was still entirely devoted to my books— still boring anyone who would listen for five seconds. I’m sure I caused a few untimely deaths.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t call it _boring_ them,” Ronan said thoughtfully. “I’d call it being passionate. Like an artist.”

Gansey cocked an eyebrow. “In that case, I’m Van Gogh. Wholly unappreciated until his _own_ untimely death. Your food, though, that’s real art.”

“I learned from the best,” Ronan said. “This place used to be my mother’s.” He indicated the bakery, or perhaps the temperamental espresso machine, with a backwards jab of his thumb. “It opened back in ‘83, when she was a kid. She learned how to bake right there, in that kitchen, though it looks a bit different now. One day my father waltzed in, took one bite of her famous chocolate chip cookies, and that was that. His heart wasn’t his anymore.”

“I know the feeling,” Gansey said. Ronan laughed, sharp and startled. “You light up, when you talk about your mom. I like that. My parents don’t have anywhere near as good a story. They met in college when they ganged up to destroy their classmates in a debate over education reform. They’re good people, and they love me, but it took them a while to come around to my sister and I both being gayer than a box of pride flags. What’s your father like?”

Ronan’s smile faded. “A lot like me, I suppose. Tall, dark, handsome, prone to danger. I was his favorite, much to the vexation of my brothers.”

“Was?”

“He was killed a few years ago, when I was in high school, hence the sad and angry. Got mixed up with the wrong people. Oh, no, don’t make that face, it’s been a long time, and he was a bit of a bastard anyway. Constantly disappearing on mysterious business trips in the dead of night.” Ronan shook his head. “But he always came back, and he always brought my mom a recipe for some new cake or chocolate. That’s how I was able to keep this place open after he died; Mom was out of commission for a while, couldn’t bear to be reminded of him, so I got the bakery, and her recipe book. Fast forward four years, and six months of night classes on running a small business, and here we are.”

“Here we are,” Gansey said, and nudged Ronan’s hand with his. Ronan laced their fingers together over the counter.

The facts were these: in 1971, Aurora Roberts was born to Sam and Lila Roberts in the back of a car, which had broken down four miles from the hospital. In 1974, she was reborn to Arthur and Angelica Jones in the back of another car, which was leaving her third and final foster home in the dust for good. In 1983, Arthur Jones opened a bakery and called it Angie’s Pies and Pastries, after his wife. Aurora Jones née Roberts was largely a quiet child, but around flour and sugar, she came alive. She learned to bake pie before she learned to do arithmetic, and when she was of age, her parents retired to the Massachusetts countryside, and she took over the family business with pleasure. The entire neighborhood knew her by name, or, if not by name, then at least by melt-in-your-mouth chocolate chip cookie. In 1991, Niall Lynch walked into Angie’s Pies and Pastries. In 1992, when Aurora was twenty-one and Niall was twenty-seven, they eloped in a chapel tucked into a neat little garden, much to the scandal of the block. In 1993, Declan Lynch was born. Ronan followed a few years later, and then Matthew, and then Niall Lynch got his head bashed in with a tire iron, which rather put a wrench in them raising any more children, or, in this case, put a tire iron in them raising any more children. Aurora, heartbroken, gave up her mixing bowl and wooden spoon, at least professionally, and became a painter, and then, realizing she was a lot better at pie and long division than landscapes, a part-time accountant. Ronan, having eschewed college, moved into the apartments above Angie’s, changed the name on the sign, and, one fateful night by the window overlooking the street, opened his mother’s recipe book for the first time since he was thirteen.

Four and a half years after Ronan opened the book, on a rainy day, Gansey walked into Pájaro Pastries. He would never truly leave. Though his feet occasionally took him elsewhere, his heart would always remain.

The rest, as they say, was history.

Three years later, Ronan and Gansey will be sitting at their kitchen table when Ronan will say, out of the blue and around a bite of cereal, "We should just get married. I’ll make the cake. I’m thinking bottom layer chocolate, middle layer carrot, top layer tiramisu. Getting the flavors to stay separate the whole way through would be the challenge, but I think I could do it."

Gansey will glance up at the man he loves, who, somehow, inexplicably, wonderfully, loves him back, say, fond and amused, "Yes, dear," and turn to the Arts section of his morning newspaper.

It will be that simple.

This is how the world begins: not with a bang, but with a bite.

**Author's Note:**

> enchanté (french) - enchanted  
> hermano (spanish) - brother  
> muy alto (spanish) - very tall, very high


End file.
